


I'm Fine, Six

by knaveofmogadore



Category: The Lorien Legacies - All Media Types, The Lorien Legacies - Pittacus Lore
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Interrogation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 00:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20105935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaveofmogadore/pseuds/knaveofmogadore
Summary: Missing scene set behinds the scenes on chapters 2-6 of United as One; Adam's interrogation in Patience Creek.





	I'm Fine, Six

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a tumblr post I wrote a week after UAO came out and I'm REALLY glad I waited until I could do this pseudo character study justice

**Hour One**

Adam thinks that the handcuffs are a bit overkill. He already said he would answer all of their questions. These military humans have no trust left. He guesses that they can't blame them, after everything with mogpro. 

A cold, almost robotic woman's voice plays from the speakers in the corner of his interrogation room. “Please state your name and rank for the proceedings.”

He sighs, “Adamus Sutekh, son of Addrakus Sutekh. I-” Adam thinks. He doesn't know what one would designate him as anymore. ‘Traitor to my race’ isn't exactly a military rank, and neither is ‘Mogadorian-Loric hybrid.’

The voice repeats itself, but more agitated this time, with impatience breaking the robotic facade. “Please state your rank for the proceedings, sir.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” Is he copying Nine, or do their ages mean that Nine is, ultimately, always copying him. 

“Are you an American citizen, or have you ever been an American citizen?”

Neither, he decides. Nine would have long since been throwing furniture by this point. 

“I would guess I'm not, no.” 

Adam has never been inside of a DMV, but from what he knows, this woman is what a DMV teller would sound like. 

“Can you state your place of birth for the proceedings please?” 

Adam stared long and hard at the black glass window in front of him. His best guess is that the woman is behind it in a room somewhere, watching him. She's probably sitting at a table filling out a stack of neat forms with black pen and a stamp. He can’t quite pinpoint why, but this entire situation reminds him painfully of the data miners below Ashwood. The fluorescent lights and bare walls of this room aren't helping. It could be the distance of the one way mirror. For the woman in the other room he might as well be on the other side of a screen, she might even be pretending that Adam is not real at all. He's just another point of a data in a busy but monotonous day of paperwork and databases. Collateral damage, another prisoner out of hundreds, _who cares_. 

Just like Hannu was.

Just like Maggie was. 

Just like One was. 

Just like all of the others were, before the war ships arrived. 

Just like this woman probably was, one out of thousands of marked and monitored government officials for mogpro, although he doubts she knows that. She repeats herself. Just another article in the investigate pile. She repeats herself. Just another vatborn target eliminated in the night. She repeats herself. One more teenager corrupted or killed in the name of the great empire. She repeats herself. Another planet falls under the might of tens of thousands of brutal soldiers who were already dying the moment they were born. The door opens. 

Adam's eyes clear without him even realizing he had zoned out. For a moment he sees his reflection in the black glass and nearly flinches. His eyes were wide and panicked like a cornered animal. There is still dirt and blood smeared on his skin, streaked in his hair. He blinks and it's Two’s face, and then it's gone. 

A man walks into his line of sight and breaks his attention. A marked manilla folder, although Adam can't read it from this angle, drops onto the metal table. It's much thinner than he expected it to be. This must mean that they don't have mogpro’s records at Patience Creek after all. Interesting. 

The man is forgettable and looks like every other officer Adam saw on the way in. His uniform is blue and pressed. He has a block of bar pins on his right shoulder. He's hatless and his hair is buzzed and his clammy skin is the colour of milk. His voice sounds like soggy cardboard with an accent that comes from the nose. Adam hates him but couldn't say why other than circumstances when he thinks about it later on, can't even remember his face.

“Where were you born, Adamus?” 

“The planet Mogadore, section six, artefecture 4.” 

He doesn't seem to care that he is sitting across from an alien at all, much less one that could kill him. Adam has to admire his resolve.

“Can you describe it for the proceedings?” 

Adam sighs through his nose. This is going to be a long night. 

**Hour Three**

Two hours in, they stopped asking questions Adam can answer. His interrogator never offered his name or rank for the proceedings, so Adam has taken to calling him Milkman. They even have a sort of jilted rhythm going. He will ask a question, and Adam has to break the news that he doesn't have the answer. Honestly, Milkman sucks. 

“What does Setrakus Ra want with Earth?” 

This loop is one of his favourites, Adam has noticed. He's a bit stuck on it. 

“He wants to destroy it, obviously.” 

Milkman always needs a second to write down the same answer he's gotten three times. 

“Why?” 

“Because he gets off on the smell of nuclear destruction.” Milkman, surprisingly, doesn't write that down. 

He sets his pen down on the table and folds his hands instead. Weirdly Adam feels like he is being talked down to by the world's second worst guidance counselor. 

“Adamus, we're getting tired of the games. What does he want exactly? Oil? Loric artifacts? Gold? Slaves? This could be pivotal in peace talks, certainly you understand that.” 

Adam's eye twitches. “Peace talks?” He snorts, “Sure, you can talk to him. You can plead for your life in the seconds before he blasts you into oblivion and call it a peace talk.” Adam instinctively pulls against the restraints and is rewarded with Milkman showing a sliver of fear in his eyes. The first sign of emotion since he met him. 

His voice is shaking, but it could just as easily be from impatience. All of it sounds like cardboard. “Could you elaborate on that?” 

“Sure. He wants to kill your species, destroy what's left of Lorien and its people, and make himself all powerful by any means possible. He wants to take this planet as another conquest for the Mogadorian empire and use it as a new base to experiment on my dying species. Setrakus Ra sees life as something he can use and warp to his advantage and in the end I believe he will only be satisfied when he is the last man alive in the universe and owns every last bone in the sand.” 

Predictably Milkman writes it all down. His shaking hands are ruining his perfect handwriting. 

Adam is startled by him sorting his report into the folder. He can hear Milkman’s spine cracking as he stands. Adam holds his wrists out but Milkman doesn't spare him a glance as he leaves with his report. He does, however, pause with his hand on the doorknob. 

“That kid, John Smith, and the others. Do you think they can really protect us?” 

If Adam didn't know better, he would think that Milkman is trembling. He must have finally realized the situation they were all in. Even so, Adam has faith in one thing; he is going to live through this, and so are his friends. 

“Yes, I do. I've seen what they can do.” 

Milkman nods, “Someone will be with you in a few minutes to ask you some questions.” 

The click of the door locking back rings in Adam's ears. _This is going to be a long night_. 

**Hour Five**

At least Milkman left behind some paper and a pen. The clanking of his handcuff chains against the metal table is frustrating but not world ending. He starts by running Swahili grammar drills, but quickly grows bored of going through the same lessons over and over and switches to doodling. Drawing is not one of his strong suits, and the neat strategy diagrams quickly transition into stick figures of his friends. He is filling in the details of a misshapen loric symbol when the doorknob turns. 

Milkman’s replacement might as well be his identical twin, for all that Adam can tell them apart. The only clue that they aren't the same person is the crooked line of new guy’s nose, broken at some point in his youth. Something in his dark eyes reminds him of Ivan. More specifically, Ivan’s childish temper. Against his will Adam tenses like he is bracing for impact. 

New Guy slams the folder on the table. The _slap_ jarrs Adam more than he would like. 

“Can you give me a list of Mogpro operatives that were active that last you knew?” His accent is best described as a drawl.

Adam's eye twitches, “No, for the fifth time, I can't.” 

New Guy leans in, “You said you knew that your people had operatives in our government, so who are they?” 

His breath smells like sour milk and sugar. Adam gives up ground leaning away just to get away from it. 

“We all knew, but like I said, I don't have names. If you wanted more specific intel you should have gone out and gotten yourselves a better mog.”

It happens so fast Adam doesn't get the chance to flinch. One second he sees New Guy’s face warped in anger, and the next he sees the floor. He had twisted his fingers in Adam's unkempt hair and slammed his face into the metal surface of the table. New Guy does it again before shoving him backwards with enough force to shift his chair. Someone warns New Guy over the speakers but Adam misses his name. 

“I don't need the attitude from you,” he spits.

“Then ask better questions.” 

His fists clench, and now Adam understands why New Guy reminds him of Ivan. He's a bully, and also a moron. He wipes his cheek on his shirt the best he can while New Guy talks.

“Alright,” he hisses out, “then maybe you can answer this. Who is the leader of the ashwood estates base? Who was in charge?” 

Finally, they have left the question loop. “General Addrakus Sutekh, son of Drakus Su Ra and head of the covert pre-invasion of Earth.” 

New Guy flips open Adam's folder and skims the first page, “Would you happen to be of any relation?” 

Sure, 18 years of abuse. “He was my father.” 

New Guy does not seem surprised, “Do you hold any allegiance to him?” 

Rip the band-aid off, as Six would say. “I killed him,” Adam says, matter of fact and without emotion.

This piqued New Guy’s interest. It is Adam's turn to not be surprised. Ivan’s type always seem to love bloodshed. He looks Adam up and down several times, certainly trying to figure out how someone like Adam could have taken down whatever he imagines a Mogadorian general to be. He guesses New Guy must be thinking of Setrakus Ra, but thankfully his father hadn't been that tall. Adam is six foot three, his father six foot six when he died. Even he can admit though that in baggy thrift store clothes, still smeared with dirt and ash and stained with his and Sarah's blood, he doesn't look that impressive. He just looks tired, scared, and angry. 

There is a newfound respect in New Guy’s eyes that curdles Adam's stomach. “Why did you do it? And how?” 

Adam stares at the glare coming off of his chains, “He threatened one of my friends, so I killed him with his own sword. His body is gone.” 

New Guy writes that down. He prefers blue pens, and Adam will hear the scratch of them in his dreams later. 

“Can you describe the functions Ashwood had when it was operational,” he asks.

It was hell, new question. He traces on the table as he talks, as if he could draw a map of the place from memory. In truth Adam barely saw any of those tunnels before he destroyed them. 

“Almost all of the war preparations took place in the network of tunnels underneath our houses. The higher levels were war rooms and reconnaissance, data crunchers and scientists dedicated to experimentation. There were also interrogation rooms and holding cells on these levels, but Ashwood was not equipped for most long term prisoners.” 

He suppresses a shiver at the thought of the greeters he saw in drawers and continues, “Below these were more scientists, and the start of our vatborn labs. The lowest levels were where the vatborn and beasts were grown and trained.” 

New Guy holds up his index finger, a laughable attempt at politeness after what they had already gone through in the last while. Thirty minutes? Ten? Adam gestures for him to speak, which irritates him. 

“What is a vatborn?” 

“Lab grown soldiers, assigned numbers and locations as designations at birth and trained to be our strongest cannon fodder. They're also uglier and have sharper teeth.” He forces a grin to demonstrate his point.

New Guy’s lips curl in disgust at Adam's own pointed teeth. “And the war beasts?” 

Adam spreads his hands as far as they would go before the chains pulled taut and the cuffs dig into his wrists. “Krauls, about the size of dogs to weasels and controlled in packs. Also Piken, which are much bigger and have one or multiple handlers each.” 

The sound of pen against the paper is beginning to make Adam sick. “Why the beasts?” 

He shrugs, “Oh, you know, for the aesthetic.” 

At this point it must be taking all of New Guy's restraint to keep himself from throttling Adam where he sits. His begrudging respect is running thin. Adam finds that his patience is too.

“Do you know what caused the tunnel system to collapse?” 

Adam glances down at his folder. It's thicker now, but still much thinner than it should be. It seems that Patience Creek didn't get Walker's records either, which is even more interesting. He wonders if they know he has a legacy at all. Would it be a good idea to tell them if they don't? 

He almost does, his mouth is open to say it, but he stops. The memory of Dr. Zapos comes back to him, the hungry look on Dr. Anu’s face as he dissected Adam with his eyes.The cuffs bite into his skin as if to remind him what it feels like to be strapped down to the table. Those things happened even with the restraints of the doctor’s failure and his young age. Without them he has doubts about his safety here if he gives up that game too soon. The good people of Patience Creek have already proven that they don't trust him. He wonders if their scientists are more like Milkman, or the new man across the table.

“No, I don't. Some machinery could have malfunctioned and caused an explosion.” 

New Guy stares him down, tapping his pen on the table, for long enough that Adam gets the urge to squirm. He wiggles his toes to vent the feeling. Finally New Guy seems to accept that answer. Writes it down. Flips the page. 

“Let’s go back to Vatborn. Would these vats be the large metal containers of noxious liquid found in those tunnels?” 

Obviously. “They would, yeah.” 

“Could you describe the process of making these soldiers, please?”

“Of course.” 

**Hour Seven**

Adam shifts, trying to force blood flow back into his feet. His head is pounding, a screaming pain that radiates out from the spot his face connected with the table. Immediately after New Guy left a woman came in. She did state her name for the proceedings. Her name is St. Jeffords, and she could be Six’s clone if not for a mole under her left eye. She is the first one to wear a hat.

Jeffords spends most of her first hour drilling Adam on the intricacies of Piken biology and base management. The questions switch rapidly from subject to subject. At the forty five minute mark he goes silent for nearly three minutes, staring at the wall and struggling through the creeping fog in his brain to catch up. His answer is completely unrelated to both subjects and vaguely explains something about Mogadorian grammar structures. Jeffords writes it down and Adam immediately forgets it. 

Something is wrong with Milkman’s notes and she wants to know about base locations again, so he tells her. He can’t look at Jeffords without seeing himself in the glass behind her. Adam occupies himself by picking at the dirt under his fingernails. 

**Hour Eleven**

When Jeffords left the silence stretched for ages. The static in Adam's brain keeps him from drawing more stick figure fight scenes. All he wants to do is sleep, and so he tries to. He folds his arms the best he can around the restraints and nestles his aching head down. He curls up in his chair the best he can and even gets to doze for twenty minutes. 

Then the beeping begins. 

At the first twenty minute mark it's a soft bloop, like the message notification on a laptop. He groans but refuses to open his eyes. The second time it sounds more like the alert on a wrist watch. Adam startles and looks up, but quickly settles back down. By the fourth time at the eighty minute mark the noise has become a shrill alarm and the time between beeps drops to 15 minutes. At the 110 minute mark he can no longer ignore it and is pressed against the table, the edge digging into his stomach, so that he can press his palms against his ears. 

At the 145 minute mark Adam hands have migrated to twist and tug at his own hair. The intervals drop to ten minutes and then five, when he silently wishes he could rip off his own ears. After the seventeenth beep the door opens. 

The next person is sitting at the table before Adam looks up. This one is like Milkman, except his skin is dark as night. His dark brown eyes are kind, like Marina’s, then he blinks and whatever Adam saw is gone. That split second of softness unsettles him more than he wants to admit. It was unexpected and suspicious, out of character and worst of all, it put him at ease for a split second too long. His mouth is dry and his cheeks and forehead wet. The man's name is Crawford.

Crawford’s voice is even and pleasant and makes Adam’s skin crawl. “Do you have any siblings, Adam?” 

Adam's voice is raw from overuse, even after three hours of rest. “I had two.” 

“What happened to them?” 

Adam coughs, “I killed my brother. I don't know where my sister is now.” 

Like everything else, that gets written down. He underlines it too. “Are you worried about her whereabouts?” 

The exhaustion is starting to melt away and his irritation is beginning to resurface. Like acid bubbling slowly in his chest. There is no reason for them to know any of this. No one at this base actually cares whether or not Kelly is alive. Not a single one of the people who have been in this room with him give a shit about Ivan. None of them really think he is more special than any other mogadorian soldier. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Adam says quietly. 

He presses his hands flat to the table to keep them from shaking, and the table vibrates. Crawford doesn't seem to notice. He moves on without comment and quietly writes something down. Circles it. 

“What is your relationship with civilian Malcolm Goode?” 

Adam's head snaps up. He fixes his gaze on Crawford, searching his face for his intentions. 

“Excuse me,” he asks, his voice cracking. 

Crawford is unfazed, and in fact he smiles. The smile does not reach his eyes and it settles like stone on his features. Crawford is in his late thirties but has no smile lines, something Adam has learned that most older humans have. 

“Is it sexual in nature?” 

The sound Adam makes is somewhere between a gag and a croak, but it still ends up sounding like a loud “No.” 

“Can you describe your relationship please,” Crawford says, his robotic voice flicking carelessly at something fragile inside Adam. 

“How is this any of your business,” he asks, his voice shaking as hard as his hands. 

He sucks his teeth at Adam’s evasiveness but continues. “Please describe your relationship with him.” 

Adam presses his feet into the floor to still his hands and prevent another table incident. On one hand having any relationship with Maclolm at all is going to harm his chances of being trusted here. On the other hand, none of these people trust them anyway. It would be safer to tell them the truth, or a less messy version of it, than it would be to lie through his teeth and drive them to assuming other things. 

His eyes are tired and burning, his glare lacking the power behind it that made it effective against Milkman all those hours ago. Crawford is unfazed by the venom in Adam's voice. 

“He's just a teacher to me, a friend, nothing more.” 

“Do you think Dr. Goode sees you as a son?” 

The words burn like bile, but they have to be said, “No, I'm certain he doesn't.” 

Adam is never going to use a pen again after this. The sound of pens on paper is already burned into the back of his mind. Crawford flips to a new page. 

“You mentioned inside intelligence of the base on Plum Island. Can you elaborate on that?” 

Adam’s leg is twitching and he can’t make it stop. The scar where his bone broke the skin in Kenya is aching for the first time in a year. 

“I already did this,” he snaps, “this entire conversation.” 

“It is important that you tell us everything. Even the smallest detail can turn the tide of this war.” 

Does he know that Adam has heard that line every time, too? Jeffords repeated it like a mantra. The whole reason he’s down here is to spill his guts. There is no point to the psychological warfare because he already would have told them everything. 

He is so tired that the venom in his voice sounds like desperation, “If you would read that report in front of you, you would already know all of those details.” He can see the folder is thicker, has watched every word in it be written. 

“Are there other bases like Plum Island?” 

“Are they keeping more Chimaera? Page 14. Are there other scientific outposts? All of those are listed somewhere in Jeffords notes.” He remembers his responses almost word for word. 

Crawford’s smile melts. Somehow it puts Adam more at ease. 

**Hour Fourteen**

This one's obsession is with weapons. His light blue eyes remind Adam of John, but this man's eyes are colder. They lack something that makes them pleasant, so in spite of the colour they're horrible and ugly. John's emotions play like a movie in his eyes. Worry, passion, anger, gentle kindness, love, excitement. Adam knows even now that he can look in John's eyes and see comfort there, and friendship. This man's eyes are equally as distracting because there is absolutely nothing behind them. His favourite pen colour is black and he doesn't seem to notice that Adam gives bullshit answers to some of his questions. 

**Hour Fifteen**

Adam crossed the line of ‘tired’ several hours ago. He thinks he must be going insane. Crawford let him keep his doodle paper but stole his pen. It didn’t matter because Adam had filled all of the white space hours before, but it still stung. Now his only entertainment is folding and refolding his doodle paper and counting the chain links of his handcuffs. The idea of trying to sleep and causing the beeping to return sits anxiously in the back of his mind. For a second Adam tricks himself into hearing it and gently knocks his head against the table to knock the anxiety loose and make the shrill sounds stop. There isn’t enough strength left in his neck to lift his head back up again. 

He is a prisoner here, Adam knows that now. It’s time to face the fact that he might not ever be walking out of the base without a fight. He didn’t see enough of the twisting, labyrinth like hallways before they led him here to stealth his way out. His legacy thrums deep underneath his skin, ready in spite of his exhaustion to carve a path out of this base if he needs to. Adam doesn’t want to need to, though. Somewhere in this base is Six, Marina, and Lexa, John and Sam. He would even feel guilty for crushing Nine in his bid for the surface. 

His fingers tap out an old Mogadorian war dirge on the table. Adam can’t place when he first heard it or why. He missed all the ‘congrats, you killed a teenager’ celebrations as a teenager himself, so it’s not from one of those. He would not remember his birth celebration, being a literal infant. Tapping with his nails now to simulate high notes, Adam muses on the blood games he sat through as a child. Certainly it was one of those, the song signaling the end to a match between a kraul and an unfortunate vatborn. The door opens and Adam turns his face on the table to see. 

There are two pairs of legs, green pants, and polished black boots. These are not the high ranking officers that have been cycling through this room like a carousel of frustration. These are foot soldiers, possibly guards, in full tactical gear. Adam can’t bring himself to care. 

Until, that is, one of them points their rifle at his face. He glares, a growl rising from his throat, and finds the motivation to sit up. 

“Is this really necessary,” he demands. 

The second guard unlocks Adam’s handcuffs from the table. The guard’s faces are as forgettable as any of the others Adam has seen tonight. The inside of the gun’s barrel is more interesting. After everything, he should be surprised it has taken this long to see the inside of one this close. Adam’s questions get ignored as he’s pulled out of his seat and pushed out of the door. 

He stumbles and stops to brace himself on the wall. His legs are screaming at him, every tendon and muscle writhing from stretching after so long being confined to a metal chair, unable to stand up more than halfway. Joints cracking and joints protesting every movement, he limps down the hallway. The wood paneling on the walls somehow looks less ugly now, the green carpet almost appealing after hours of only seeing grey. 

Adam gets a bathroom break, one guard on each side of the door. The urge to barricade himself inside his locked stall and cry comes on suddenly without warning. He finds himself standing there long after flushing, trembling hands pressed to the door and fighting back tears. There is still blood in the creases between his knuckles. It could be Marina’s, or Sarah’s, or even Ella’s or his. He scrubs at his face with both hands and shakes his head to clear the thoughts away, or try to. 

Marina’s blood stained his shirt in several places when he carried her. Adam isn’t going to get those stains out, but he can wash his hands and splash water on his face. He runs his wet hands through his hair several times but it doesn’t help the dirt or the blood and especially not the knots, so he gives up. 

This time when escorting him the guards don’t touch him. If Adam didn’t know any better he would say that they’re afraid of him. The idea is crazy. Adam doesn’t feel like someone anyone should be afraid of, and certainly doesn’t feel like a garde. He feels exhausted down to his bones. He feels like his head is full of smog. His throat is sore from talking and aches from wanting to cry. The handcuffs have made bruises on his wrists. 

Adam gets to sit in a wooden chair in a hallway of wooden panels walls before a wooden door to a meeting room that probably has a wooden table. The carpet is green here too, and just as dingy as it is everywhere else. Decor might not be one of his strong suits either, but Adam is sure this place used to be a kitsch hotel. It reminds him strongly of some of the seedier places he and Malcolm stayed at on their way to Paradise. The thought of Malcolm awakens a new ache in him, somewhere between his fourth and fifth set of ribs. Adam wants a nap, and a shower, but most of all he wants to see his friends. 

The empty look John had in his eyes the last time Adam saw him scared him. He never even got to tell John he was sorry before he was led away, might never get to tell him at all. Adam closes his eyes for a second and he sees Ella, small and frail and covered in her own blood after something he did and suddenly he wants to apologize to her all over again. He wants to tell Six that she tried her best, that she fought harder than any of them. 

One of the guards shifts on his boots and Adam hates how tense the sound of boots stepping down still makes him tense. The man is staring straight ahead and ignoring Adam’s stare. His finger is resting idly on the rifle’s trigger. Malcolm showed him once how his rifle worked, during a long night spent in the truck while the road was closed on the way to Dulce. Adam knows how to load it, how to take it apart and put it together, how to clean it, and how to turn the safety on and off. Malcolm got a new one in the time they were separated, but the instructions must be more or less the same. The guard has the safety off and his finger on the trigger, and he won’t acknowledge when Adam asks him a question. He hasn’t made eye contact once. 

Either of these men would shoot him without thinking twice, might not even care if they killed him. That fact is not surprising, but it _is_ terrifying. It makes the motion of one of their guns shoving into his back nerve wracking. One text notification and they are finally moving through the wooden hallway through the wooden door into the room with the wooden table. 

What he sees almost has him collapsing in relief. At the head of the table is John, next to him Nine, then Ella. Across from Nine is Sam. Across from John is Six, whose chair has just flown two feet. All of them look angry, and it takes several seconds for Adam to convince himself that anger isn’t directed at him. Six is yelling, pointing at General Lawson. Nine is standing too, and the glint in his eye when he nods at the guard at Adam’s left makes him nervous. Suddenly it’s easier to watch the two men who want to kill him than to see his friends jump to his aid. Something in him, that old hair trigger response from his childhood that’s used to dodging fists and hiding from boots, tells Adam that this situation needs to deescalate before someone gets hurt. He can lick his wounds later as long as they make it through right now unscathed. 

Adam hates how tired he sounds, how hard it is to force the words out. 

“I’m fine Six,” he says, because everything would be as long as nobody got hurt. 

His friends are here. No matter what else happens, everything is going to be ok.

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda wish I did this from Adam's first person POV, but I'm also not willing to rewrite a 5k fic right now while I still have other wips I wanna finish. Also people can judge me because we have a book and a half of material for his POV so No Thank You.


End file.
